Free The Number 7 by Jessica Lidh Page B

with nothing but pictures of deserts, mountains, and open sky—the latter of which I bewilderingly held up for Dad to see. I’d kept my eye on the desk the entire time, but it stayed quiet. The phone sat dead.
    â€œSorry, kiddo. I know you’re frustrated,” he said, blowing some dust off an old picture frame. “Here’s a picture of me!” He held up an eight-by-ten of a baby boy in a red wagon.
    â€œAt last! A picture of a real human being!” I made my way over to him. “Dad, you’re adorable, but I wanted to find pictures of Grandma and Grandpa. How is it that you’ve never shown us any ? That painting down in the foyer is the first I’ve ever seen of Grandma. Do you realize how weird that is?”
    It was a low blow, even I’ll admit it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dad drop his shoulders in shame. I attempted some damage control.
    â€œI just want to know what my grandparents looked like. That’s all. Living in this house, I kind of sense them around. And I feel bad not knowing more about them—and what happened to them.” I shouldn’t have asked for his help. He didn’t want to help. He didn’t want to dig up old memories. I was infringing on Pandora’s territory, I could tell.
    â€œWhat do you mean what happened to them? They died.”
    â€œForget it,” I shrugged. The old reliable shrug. Just like the deficients, I could rely on the shrug to get me out of a lot of unpleasant conversations.
    And then Dad did something unexpected. He shut the box, sat back against part of the scaffolding, and relaxed his shoulders.
    â€œOkay,” he whispered. He was finally ready. “Your grandfather was stoic, almost somber. It was his way. It was the Swede’s way. He was a man of few words. He always tried to teach me to be like him, but I wasn’t. I was loud and energetic, and I liked to express my opinion and debate. I think he saw my outspoken nature as a personal failure. He couldn’t ever rein me in. He and I didn’t have the relationship the three of us do . . . ” Dad’s voice trailed off. He was struggling with the story. How much to tell? Where to start? “He died after we’d grown apart. You were eight—too young for a funeral.”
    The irony! Three years later and I’d be sitting in a cold church staring down an urn of ashes. Staring at what was left of my mom.
    â€œYou’ve got some of his best qualities, I think,” Dad said, shifting the conversation, looking over at me. “You’re a good listener, and you think before you act, Louisa. I’ve always admired that about you. Look at me? I’m a spontaneous, impulsive wreck. That’s why we’re here and not in North Carolina, right?”
    â€œI always thought I was like you,” I whispered. How much did he know about Grandpa? Did he know he was a murderer?
    â€œWhen I left for Lehigh, I saw it as an escape from my life here. Not that my life here was that bad, but I just always felt . . . contained. I never felt I was able to be a kid. Dad wanted me to grow up. He tried harnessing my energy with long walks through the forest. He’d write me letters warning me about the danger of zeal and leave them for me in my room. He’d reiterate the virtues of patience and solitude. It was as if he didn’t know how to talk to me. ‘The day we fear hastens toward us, the day we long for creeps,’ he’d write. But he’d never tell me about those things he feared or those he longed for. It didn’t seem like he had any passions; there was just always this very serious man who never smiled, never laughed. I didn’t want that life. I asked Mom about it, but she’d just shrug her shoulders and tell me that one day I’d maybe understand. ‘You remind him of a different life,’ she’d say. But I didn’t get it, and her answers were good enough